


a little lie and a bigger hurt

by intimatopia



Category: Persona 5
Genre: 2/2, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anniversary, Guilt, M/M, Miscommunication, Self-Hatred, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29136708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intimatopia/pseuds/intimatopia
Summary: He didn’t like to talk when they were in bed together. He rarely liked to talk at all, alright with letting the silence taunt Akechi halfway to madness.Akechi thinks Akira blames him. Akira does no such thing. It takes three years to get on the same page.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Comments: 9
Kudos: 114





	a little lie and a bigger hurt

**Author's Note:**

> peace sign. i feel like shit about my writing lately so it was nice to get this done on time. [listen to this](https://open.spotify.com/track/5E0bcIeO3IZncMXgPkpNsX).

Like all the worst habits, they endured past their expiry date.

The date: a cold weeknight in February like every other night. Akechi leaned against the wall, just outside the sullen spill of the city lights. He was waiting for someone.

His someone made his way through people, a graceful shark among the unsuspecting crowd. He looked older every time Akechi saw him, but he insisted on this, and so Akechi showed up. 

Akira found him at once. His stride lengthened, one hand tugging at the loose end of his scarf before unwinding it completely and folding it into the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t acknowledge Akechi as he propped himself against the wall, pulling out a case of cigarettes. 

Akechi held his breath until Akira lit up, then exhaled.

Still some of the smoke wound its way into his lungs. He didn’t have a problem with the smell, but it lingered, and that was…inconvenient. 

They had lives outside these trysts—or Akechi presumed Akira did; a girlfriend, half a dozen jobs, friendships and futures. There was no one waiting for Akechi, no home whose doorway he’d darken, but the world turned and took him with it and he was resigned by now to the crash and the current. 

Once a year in wintertime, he was anchored. Nothing beyond that was quite relevant.

The first February—the first bar one, the one they didn’t talk about—had been in a hotel room between apartments—the third found Akechi in a flat he didn’t quite hate. It was small, but the bed was big enough for two, and there was sunshine in the kitchen for an hour in the morning. 

Akira followed him in. Akechi’s back prickled with the weight of his gaze.

Akira wandered around; Akechi took off his jacket and his shoes. They reunited in the bedroom, a kiss that Akira didn’t ask for and didn’t apologize about. He _should_ have known better by now to try to be kind at all—that wasn’t the point of this, and it was a useless distraction—but he set his hands on Akechi’s shoulders with an annoying tenderness, smoothing them down Akechi’s chest before undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Akechi shrugged it off himself, barely holding in a shiver when Akira’s cool palms caressed his stomach. It was always, _always_ too long since he’d been touched. He shoved Akira into the bed and straddled him, reaching for the zipper on Akira’s jeans.

Of course, he didn’t get that far. Akira’s grip on his wrist was familiar, firm, unyielding. Akechi tried to pull away and failed.

Akira’s eyes were cold and dark. Akechi shrank from the desperation in them.

He was rewarded for his cowardice when Akira let his hand go and flipped them over, pinning Akechi down with his body. Though his hands were cold, the rest of him ran warm; it wasn’t uncomfortable when he knew how to balance himself.

“Do you know what you want?” Akechi asked. Even asking felt like a confession; Akira knew Akechi knew how he’d reply, would know that this is permission.

Permission to _what,_ Akechi never figured out in time.

“You,” Akira answered. “I want you.”

The truth of it made Akechi shiver. He felt stripped, afraid, teetering on the edge of surrender. His skin prickled though he _asked_ for this. He should have been used to it by now; he never was. He never had the time.

He half-shrugged as best as he could and tried to seem like he didn’t care. He knew Akira saw through that too, but he allowed it as he pushed his fingers into Akechi’s mouth. They tasted like skin and sweat and cigarette paper. Akechi sucked on them with every appearance of gratefulness, an emotion he couldn’t hide at all when it came to Akira. The impulse to lie was deeply burnt, but Akira coaxed out the sincerity too.

Akira had never ever hesitated to return it. But sincerity wasn’t enough.

The first February, the one they didn’t talk about, Akira had called Akechi’s phone. And that time, too tired after weeks of little sleep and nightmares, Akechi had picked up—only for Akira to inform him of everything he’d ever done wrong in crisp and enraged detail.

It had taken Akechi too long to realize Akira was drunk, and longer still to stop crying—the first time in years he’d cried because of what someone said to him. There was just something about the angry despair in Akira’s voice that Akechi had never recovered from, no matter how many times Akechi told himself it was only because Akira was drunk that he was saying any of this.

That one never worked. Akira was nice, _too_ nice. Some part of Akechi was always waiting for the cruelty underneath to shine through and blind him. It was almost a relief when Akira shouted at him: here at last was the truth, and it hurt as only the truth could. 

The first time they did _this,_ they only barely put Akira’s glasses away in time before they were tearing at each other, Akira’s hunger held back for so long it scorched Akechi’s skin when finally unleashed—Akechi had been no better, broken and bitter and too angry to think. Even now he couldn’t remember how that night had gone, could only recall the way he’d felt clean and empty in the aftermath before he’d looked up and seen the raw _rage_ in Akira’s eyes.

Rage at Akechi, for leaving. For not returning. It had never gone away.

The second time, a year later, Akechi hadn’t let Akira get a word in before dropping to his knees. Akira had let him take the lead that time, but it felt more like a courtesy than anything. Akechi drank himself numb after Akira left, unable to face any part of the ruin he made of anything good in his vicinity.

Now Akira pulled his fingers out, trailing wet fingertips over Akechi’s jaw. The warmth jarred him—his body was cold. 

That second time should have been the end of it. But here Akechi was again, unable to stay away and unable to remember why it mattered.

“Akira—”

“Shh,” Akira said. He pressed his fingers against the delicate skin where Akechi’s pulse hammered. “I’ve missed you.”

How could he just _say_ that? Like he wasn’t the reason Akechi stayed away. His rage was magnetic, pulling Akechi apart. If he’d been better, stronger, something like the version of him who’d turned down happiness for the entire world because _he_ couldn’t bear to be caged—that version of him would never have agreed to this.

Would he? Akechi didn’t know anymore. He’d known, once, that Akira was ruining him for all others. What happened now that he _was_ ruined? Where was his pride?

Some fear must’ve shown on his face—Akira leaned down and kissed him, hard and gentle enough to stop Akechi’s head from spinning. _You don’t want this,_ Akechi thought. But Akira _was_ kissing him, and Akechi had been starving too long not to kiss back, not to try pulling Akira closer and pleading silently for more.

“Take this off,” Akira said, pulling away. Akechi didn’t fold into himself out of long practice, drawing his arms between them to strip off the binder. His lungs strained for breath. Akira’s expression sharpened. He’d never tried to hide his appreciation for Akechi’s body.

He leaned down again, a hand pressed to the side of Akechi’s face and cradling the back of his head. For the mistakes Akechi had made and the crimes he’d committed deliberately, there were probably more fitting punishments. None of them, he was sure, would _hurt_ quite like Akira touching him with real concern and real tenderness when they both knew what lay underneath, thumbing at Akechi’s peaked nipples and grazing his mouth over Akechi’s cheek, breath hot against his ear. His body, long numb to sensation, thawed into a hyperawareness that stretched every nerve taut and screaming for _something._

Akira was quiet in bed—quiet as he palmed at Akechi’s breasts, tracing over a scar at his side. Akechi was used to rougher treatment. The gentleness made him nervous even as it sang its way through Akechi’s touch-starved blood, a slow-sweet ache building between his legs.

But Akira was still fully-clothed, fully focused on his task—methodically and silently making Akechi fall apart. He lingered too long on every patch of skin, his expression too blank to be made out effectively.

With Akira, Akechi couldn’t seem to stop making mistakes. Everything he did would be wrong somehow, but he didn’t know when he’d become _so_ painfully transparent, so easy to destroy.

There was no hint of guilt on Akira’s face. Of course there wasn’t—he’d hide it, he’d make this feel _real_ until Akechi found himself convinced too. That Akira didn’t know him well enough to bank on Akechi’s perennial suspicion was the only thing saving him from further heartbreak—though if this was being _saved_ then Akechi didn’t know if he was expected to survive this punishment at all.

He had been doing a good job keeping his words inside himself, the order Akira had given at the start holding without his clear intention to follow it. He still made a sound as Akira unzipped his pants and tugged them down. 

“I know,” Akira said softly, with no indication of _what_ he knew. And then he was stroking the tops of Akechi’s bare thighs, tantalizingly close to his core. “Tell me what you want.”

Oh, he could talk _now._ Like Akira would even give him what he asked for, just because he was asking. He couldn’t find an answer inside himself—he wanted to not be punished. He wanted to deserve this for real, to be someone who wouldn’t let it happen at all, to have been stronger and _better_ from the start. Once, Akechi hadn’t cared about any of those things. He hadn’t expected to live long enough for caring to mean anything.

That was before, and Akira needed an answer _now._ “Fingers,” he said, voice going up at the end in a way he hated. He wanted to elaborate, but his voice was failing him.

Akira had fucked him, that first time. He’d held Akechi against the wall and fucked him until Akira was crying, damp and silent sobs that shook through both of them. He’d fucked Akechi like he couldn’t believe Akechi was still alive and for a moment there Akechi had made the foolish error of trusting it—of thinking he was, even once, allowed to have something good.

That was only minutes before he’d seen the long-hidden anger in Akira’s eyes, and fled from it as he’d always wanted to flee from everything that wanted to hurt him—except Akira wasn’t a monster, deserved better, and so when he asked Akechi came.

He’d left again. He could only take so much of Akira’s intensity before his nerve failed him. A week by his side would ruin Akechi to the point of never leaving.

Of course, that only made it worse when Akira asked him to come again. 

Akira, who was staring down at him now. He shook his head as Akechi watched, a wordless gesture of disapproval that shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. Akechi’s skin crawled, but he was fucked up enough to enjoy it a little bit.

So _what_ if Akira hated him? So what if Akira couldn’t stand him on any other days of the year than the time Akechi had hurt him most—he was still _here,_ still touching Akechi. Even if it was ruining both of them, Akira had a longer fall ahead of him. That Akechi was once more the cause of his fall thrilled the part of him that revelled in hurting those he loved.

“Are you going to do anything?” Akechi asked archly.

“Yeah,” Akira muttered, ducking his head. He didn’t like to talk when they were in bed together. He rarely liked to talk at all, alright with letting the silence taunt Akechi halfway to madness.

His hands shook as he dragged the backs of his fingers over Aechi’s underwear, pressing lightly. Akechi made a soft, helpless sound. He couldn’t help it—he was wet, he’d been wet since Akira had kissed him. He couldn’t help the response of his body and he couldn’t convince himself they were better off not enjoying it. Another sound escaped him when Akira rubbed over his folds through the cloth, the pressure accentuating the ache without doing anything to alleviate it.

“Wait,” he forced himself to say. “Let me—” He twisted and shimmied out of his pants and then looked up at Akira for a considered beat before tugging the underwear off too. 

There was a wam look in Akira’s eyes as Akechi settled back into place, heart thudding—he looked thoughtful and amused by Akechi’s impatience. It brought a flush to Akechi’s face, but he refused to back down. If this was half-pretense, he’d play his role even if he wasn’t sure what it was anymore.

Work roughened Akira’s fingers; the calluses on his fingers felt good against Akechi’s wet hole. They feel even better against his clit. Akechi exhaled and tried to relax, tried to simply allow the pleasure to sink through his body and ease the frigid guilt heavy in his chest. He didn’t feel quite so _much_ before Akira came into his life—what Akechi remembered of that time was coloured by a bleakness, a dull grind of misery and death cut through by the intense hunger for revenge. Even that hadn’t held a candle to everything Akira made him feel and want, entire skylines suddenly cast in dizzying light.

But he couldn’t relax. He couldn’t stop thinking about how this was meant to hurt him, and how it felt so _good_ to be hurt.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Fuck me.”

The clipped command made Akira raise an eyebrow, curious at Akechi’s sudden need to call the shots. Akechi shrugged, deliberately uncaring. He wanted Akira to be undone too—it was only fair, though fairness meant little when Akira wasn’t as viciously closed-up as Akechi was.

Akira shrugged and climbed off of Akechi, making quick work of his clothes. Even so Akechi was cold as he hauled himself upright and moved back on the bed, against the headboard.

Maybe not the best move if he was so unprepared to see Akira track his every gesture, then crawl onto the bed and put himself between Akechi’s legs like he belonged there. Akechi swallowed, placing his hands lightly on Akira’s bare chest. Only the slightest shiver betrayed Akira’s disgust with being touched—Akechi wanted to drop his hands again, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop touching Akira.

He couldn’t look away from Akira’s hard, flushed cock either. Akechi wondered distantly how long Akira had been hard, which part of this entire business got to his head.

Was it the prospect of punishing Akechi? He knew it would have made him wet in Akira’s place. Was it Akechi’s body that Akira liked even when he disliked every other part of Akechi? Was it simply the act of it, the part of his mind where Akechi was a warm hole and nothing more complex than that?

None of the options appealed. All of them did, in their own twisted ways. He was older than he’d ever expected to be, and understood why people wanted to get hurt.

Akechi had been raised in pain. He didn’t know what to do without it. 

Akira did, though. Akechi was aroused enough that it shouldn’t have been able trouble to fuck him, but Akira took his sweet time stroking Akechi’s clit and fucking him with two fingers until he covered his mouth with one hand, swallowing the sound that broke in his throat as he came with a shudder.

It wasn’t _enough._ His body felt warmer and looser afterwards, but still strung up and waiting to be satiated.

This always happened at Akira’s pace—there was no point trying to hurry him along, he was impervious to taunts. And Akechi could hardly bring himself to speak right now; the mixture of guilt and dread and excitement couldn’t be articulated without humiliation.

Then Akira reached up and pulled Akechi’s hand away, and Akechi frowned. “Why,” he said petulantly. 

“I want to hear you,” Akira said.

That made sense, though Akechi quailed inside. Akira just wanted to hear him embarrass himself. Wasn’t it enough that this was hurting Akechi—but that had never been enough for the world, so why would it be enough for Akira?

He stroked Akechi’s side, sweeping gentle strokes that unknotted some anxiety despite Akechi’s better sense. He relaxed even as Akira tugged his hands into view, twining their fingers together and tugging his hand to Akira’s mouth, pressing a soft kiss to the back of Akechi’s hand. Akechi couldn’t help the surprised sound, nor the inane desire to give in, trust that Akira really wanted to give this to him.

But Akechi had made that mistake once already, and he _wouldn’t_ make it again.

Akira let out a soft gasp when he pressed the head of his cock against Akechi’s hole, stayed pressed there for a long few seconds like he couldn’t deal with how it felt. 

Privately Akechi agreed—he throbbed inside, waiting for Akira to fuck him, loose and needy—but some part of him always failed to believe that their bodies were physically capable of fitting together like that, and he wanted to relish this moment of disbelief. 

“Alright?” Akira asked, and Akechi realized he’d shut his eyes without noticing.

“Yes,” he said impatiently, rocking his hips challengingly into Akira’s. “Fuck me, Kurusu.”

Akira shook his head but slid inside, swift and easy and _breathtaking._ It shouldn’t have been that easy, but—Akira had always been good at knowing where to disarm Akechi.

Once Akechi had known Akira that well too. Time and distance had pulled Akira away from him until this was all that was left, and Akechi was too pathetic to deny himself scraps. He clenched around Akira’s cock and made a needy pitched sound in the back of his throat he didn’t want to admit to, mind hazy at the edges. 

Akira soothed him seemingly without thinking about it, running his hands over Akechi’s body as he fucked inside in lazy, languid thrusts—like they had all the time in the world. Akechi rocked against Akira, trying to force him to increase his pace, but it didn’t work.

It didn’t work, and Akira pinned him down with a firm grip on his shoulders, so it seemed all Akechi really _could_ do was take it. That was almost a relief.

In the past he’d fought harder before caving, but he’d been fighting everything all his life and he’d take the punishment of being used and left if it meant Akira would turn his mind off and let him rest for a few hours. Still the anxiety tangled in his stomach and gnawed at his organs, a deeply childish fear that couldn’t be removed by reminding himself he was used to this pattern, was safe as long as he didn’t let his guard down.

He should have known better, really. He was never safe with Akira—not when Akira knew him better than anyone else living or dead, not when Akira was so willing to use that knowledge against him. Akechi sobbed on a particularly deep thrust, was rewarded by the flash of a sharp grin and a pace just fast enough to coax him to the edge without tipping him over.

Akira caught him in a searing kiss just as he was about to bring his own hand down to finish himself off. “My turn,” he murmured against Akechi’s mouth. Akechi just kissed him harder, keeping him close with a hand on the back of his neck.

There was no indication that Akira was close to coming except the rough edge to his panting and the way his hands were gripping Akechi’s upper arms hard enough to leave bruises.

“Come for me,” Akechi whispered. “Akira, now—”

“Fuck,” Akira gritted out, or some word like that which was quickly lost in Akechi’s mouth. “So— _good—_ ” 

“Yes,” Akechi said softly, thrilled to aching. The words felt meant for him.

Akira collapsed on top of him, heavy and sweaty, then dragged himself up almost at once to finger Akechi again. Akechi wanted to tell him it wasn’t necessary, but the truth was he liked the feeling of being full and freshly fucked, and he liked Akira’s deft hands. 

He came with a silenced moan, arching against the hard weight of Akira’s body. There was a moment where his mind was utterly, blissfully empty, and all he could do was clutch blindly at Akira and trust that he wouldn’t let Akechi drown.

When he returned to himself, still shivering in the aftershock, Akira had turned them around and wrapped himself around Akechi. For a moment Akechi did not process anything odd about this.

Then—“Akira?” 

Akira was tracing small circles under Akechi’s breasts. His hum rumbled through both their bodies. 

“I,” Akechi started. He couldn’t go on after that—it just _hurt_ suddenly, all of the weight he’d borne for three years crashing down on him. It hurt and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t _think,_ couldn’t imagine why he had to live with this _after_ everything else he’d lived through. The depths of grief submerged him without warning—some part of him wanted to tell Akira that this just happened sometimes, now. “You should leave,” was what he actually said. 

“Goro,” Akira said. There was a very _real_ note of concern in his voice, and Akechi couldn’t stand how _good_ he was—the goodness was at its most cutting when turned against Akechi, who deserved it least—Akira knew that. “You’re not okay.”

“Oh,” Akechi snapped. “Wow. _Really?_ Did some little bird tell you that?” He was shaking almost too badly to get the words out and couldn’t tear himself out of Akira’s grip, but he refused to be hindered by that now. “This isn’t your business.” _You don’t want it to be your business._

Akira sighed, shifting up so he was leaning over Akechi. This was the worst position for an argument—too intimate, too laced with the possibility of something more. “And if I do?”

“Don’t push it,” Akechi snarled, trying to get away from Akira. “Haven’t I let you hurt me enough today?”

“What,” Akira said flatly, pinning him down. “What are you _talking_ about.”

“Don’t act like—you don’t know,” Akechi hissed. “Let me _go._ ”

“No.” There was an implacable hard gleam in Akira’s eyes. “Not until you tell me what you’re talking about.”

Akechi slumped. He felt cold and sick again—he didn’t want to say this, like acknowledging it made it real somehow. Not that it hadn’t been real all these years, but at least Akechi could retreat to brief fantasies. If Akira looked at him with that kind of hatred again, he’d come away with it burnt into his mind.

The edge softened. “Goro?” 

“Don’t,” Akechi said reflexively. “Just, shut up.”

Akira shut up, but he also started stroking Akechi’s side like he was gentling a scared animal, and Akechi wanted to crawl out of the window and die under a car if it would save him from this ordeal.

“You hate me,” Akechi explained, trying to keep it brief. “And—I know why. It’s quite obvious, when you come down to it, I’ve done plenty of things you should hate me for and you _didn’t_ for quite a long time—heaven knows why—” Akira’s poker face was his worst asset, Akechi hated him for it “—but then I cut through your friends’ chances at happiness and yours. I don’t regret it, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t do it—and I was the one to hurt them in the first place, which wasn’t quite under my control but the second time _was_ and then I—”

“Goro,” Akira said. “Shut up.”

“I left,” Akechi went on. “I left you and I broke my promise and I didn’t come back—” 

Akira kissed him.

The hand at his side came up to cradle his face. Akechi had wanted to lean into a touch all night—he couldn’t help turning his face into Akira’s palm, trying to hide whatever was on his face. “You,” Akira said. “You. Are so. _Stupid._ ”

“You were the one who told me—” Akechi began, cheeks furiously aflame. 

“I know,” Akira interrupted sharply, then softened in a way that nearly hurt more. “I wasn’t—wasn’t the best with you. For you.” He paused, and Akechi didn’t have anything to fill it with. “I dealt pretty badly with some things.”

The fingers against his skin were trembling. Akechi reached up to grasp Akira’s wrist, waiting.

“I didn’t _want_ to hurt you,” Akira went on, low and careful. Akechi almost didn’t want to hear it. The world where Akira hated him made infinitely more sense. “I did. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Akechi replied reflexively. He didn’t think anyone had ever apologized _to_ him for hurting him. “It wasn’t like you were _wrong._ ”

Akira shook his head. “I wasn’t angry at you.” Akechi made a disbelieving sound. “Okay, I _was._ But mostly I was angry at myself, and the world, and I wanted to talk to you. I fucked up, it was _my_ fault far more than yours—I knew how you’d take it, I just—” 

“If I can’t blame myself neither can you,” Akechi interrupted frantically. There was something terrifying about Akira’s self-blame—not only that it was unfamiliar but that he managed to mean it as deeply as Akechi despite being a far better person.

It hurt, in a different way than Akechi had hurt for years—in a different way than hearing Akira say _it was my fault_ like Akira considered himself responsible for heading off Akechi’s guilt—or like he truly thought Akechi was not the person at fault here even though it would’ve made so much _sense_ to simply blame him and have done with it. Akechi could hardly be further damned.

“That’s,” Akira shook his head. “Underhanded.”

Akechi tried to smile. “I’ve never seen the point of playing fair,” he said. “Though I suppose I’ll be held to higher standards now.”

“Not by me,” Akira frowned. “Goro?”

Akechi tensed, then forced himself to relax. His tendency towards anxiety was still in overdrive. He never knew how much attention to give it. Akira, though, was hesitating for too long. “Spit it out, Akira.”

Akira startled, then smiled, private in its palpable nervousness. “Can I stay?”

That Akira would _want_ to stay was unexpected—that he’d ask even more so, a bravery Akechi could never match. And Akechi didn’t know if it was a good idea. He felt fragile and worn away at the edges, unable to muster the knife-sharp defenses he needed to be around anyone—yet he craved it as deserts craved water. “Yes,” he said impulsively, tugging Akira down until they were breathing the same air. “Just tonight—”

“I can stay that long,” Akira whispered. “Goro, Goro—” he pressed his mouth to Akechi’s forehead, unbearably tender. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> comments are heart emoji. [tumblr](https://ciaran.tumblr.com), [twitter](https://twitter.com/_intimatopia) & [18+ twitter](https://twitter.com/misgcnder). come talk to me!


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